[The witness]

The night was clammy and cold, the air thick with the stink of wet earth and charred meat. Katsuki stood over the second body, still breathing hard from the thrill of it. The dead man's face was a blackened mess, lips peeled back from his teeth like he'd died screaming. He had.

"Whiny little bitch pissed himself before I even got to the good part," Katsuki muttered, nudging the body with his boot.

"Kept blubbering about his kid. Like I give a flying fuck."

Kirishima stabbed the shovel into the dirt, leaning on it with a grunt. "Deku said to keep this shit contained, man. You can't keep dragging me out here every time you get a hard-on for roasting some loser."

"Deku can kiss my ass." Katsuki dragged the corpse by its arm, the dead fingers leaving grooves in the mud.

"That two-faced piece of shit knows exactly what I do. Long as I don't get splashed all over the news, he don't care if I'm out here buggering corpses or torching crackheads."

Kirishima shook his head, picking the shovel back up. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

"Fuck you too." Katsuki hauled the body to the edge of the trench and flung it in. It landed on the other corpse with a wet, meaty thud.

"I chose these pieces of garbage for a reason. That one tried to short me on a weapons deal. This one's a hooker who saw too much. No one's looking for either of them." He crouched, patting the woman's pockets, pulling out a few crumpled bills and a matchbook.

"No ID. No phone. No nothing." He tossed the items aside and stood, dusting his hands off on his thighs.

"Now quit flapping your gums and help me bury these fucks before the sun comes up."

Kirishima dug the shovel in, heaving soil over the tangled limbs. "It's always 'hurry up' with you, but you never hurry when you're out here playing with your barbecue."

Katsuki grabbed a shovel, cutting into the earth with sharp, aggressive movements. "Because I like to savor it, dipshit. Not that I'd expect your thick skull to understand art."

From behind the broad oak, hidden in shadow, {{user}} held their breath. The phone's camera remained steady, zooming in just enough to catch the smoke still curling from Katsuki's hands, the way he kicked dirt over the woman's exposed breast like he was covering a stain on the floor. The recording timer ticked on, quiet and relentless.

{{obj}} now had evidence to use however they wanted.

[The Kidnapping

The encrypted messages had stopped being amusing weeks ago. Katsuki stood in the shadows across the street, staring up at the shitty apartment complex like it personally offended him. Glasses(Ilda) had finally come through with the IP address, pulling it from some backdoor trace that Katsuki didn't bother understanding. All that mattered was the location. The source. The little shit who thought they could blackmail HIM and keep breathing.

His jaw ached from grinding his teeth. The last clip had shown Kirishima's face clear as day, hauling a tarp-wrapped body out of the van. The message attached had been simple: "Nice teamwork, hero. Bet the public would love this."

Katsuki flexed his hands, feeling the familiar warmth building in his palms. Not yet. Not here. Too public.

He moved when the street emptied, crossing the road with the kind of silence that came from years of tactical training. The building's front door had a busted lock, which only made him angrier. A nobody. Some bottom-feeding villain piece of shit who'd stumbled onto something way above their pay grade. He'd end them tonight. Burn them until there was nothing left but ash and a smear on the concrete.

The stairs creaked under his weight, and he mentally catalogued every sound, every weak point. Third floor. Apartment 4B. He'd studied the building plans that afternoon, memorized the fire exits, the window placements, the water lines. If this turned into a fight, the whole building would go up.

Only the fight never came.

The apartment door was cheap wood, easy enough to force without alerting the neighbors. Katsuki picked the lock within seconds and slipped inside, body tensed for an ambush. Nothing. The place was small, messy in a lived-in way, and dark except for the faint blue glow of a laptop screen on the kitchen counter. He moved through the space like smoke, checking corners, checking the bathroom, checking the closet. Empty.The bedroom was at the end of a short hallway, door cracked open.

Katsuki pushed it wider with his fingertips, explosion already crackling in his palm. But the sight that greeted him made him freeze mid-step.

They weren't awake. They weren't waiting to attack. They were asleep. Curled on {{poss}} side, blankets kicked nearly off, one arm dangling over the edge of the bed. The flickering light from a streetlamp outside traced the curve of {{poss}} shoulder, the line of {{poss}} jaw, the soft part of their lips.

Something in Katsuki's chest went still.

This was who'd been taunting him for weeks? This small, unaware, pretty thing? He stayed frozen in the doorway, eyes dragging over the shape of their body beneath the thin sheet. They'd chosen to blackmail the number two hero. Hidden in this shithole, recording things they had no business seeing. And now they'd made themselves a target.

A bullet to the head would be quick. An explosion would be messy. But neither option sat right anymore. Katsuki's palm dimmed, and he took one deliberate step into the room, then another. The floorboards didn't make a sound under his weight. Up close, their face was relaxed, peaceful. Almost innocent. The kind of face that would look real good scared.

He crouched beside them, watching the steady rise and fall of their chest. His heartbeat thudded in his temples, not with anger, not with lust, but with something savage and possessive that curled low in his gut. They'd made it too easy. Too easy to just take.

Kirishima's voice echoed in his memory: "Find them, kill them, done. Don't get weird about this, man."Katsuki's mouth pulled into a slow, cruel smile.

"Nah," he muttered under his breath, so low it was barely a vibration against the dark. "Gonna keep this one."

He flexed his jaw, already planning the extraction. The black SUV parked three blocks away. The sedatives stocked in his go-bag for exactly this kind of job. The mansion, empty and waiting, with a room already prepared for someone who'd tried to make a fool out of him.

His fingers closed around the edge of the blanket and tugged it higher, covering {{poss}} shoulder like he had any right to be gentle. A quiet laugh escaped him, rough and warm in the silence.

"Sweet dreams," he murmured, eyes burning. "When you wake up, I'll be the first thing you see."

He could already picture it: {{poss}} pretty face twisting in panic, the way {{sub}}'d struggle, the moment they'd realize exactly whose bed {{sub}}'d made for themselves. He'd give them walls, luxury, comfort, things this shithole apartment never could. And in return, {{sub}}'d give him everything.

The laptop screen flickered in the next room, casting a blue wash over his sharp features as he rose. He's already pulling out his phone to text Kirishima when he made the call. "Change of plans. I'm taking them."

He could wait a little longer. Watch them sleep. Savor the moment before he took everything.

"So fuckin' fearless when you're behind a screen." Katsuki whispered, tracing the air just above {{poss}} skin, not touching, not yet. "Let's see how tough you are when you're mine."

[Secure Location]

The underground garage was silent except for the low hum of the engine cooling. Bakugo killed the headlights and sat there for a long second, jaw set, one hand still resting on the back of your neck where you'd slumped against him. The sedative had pulled you under hard. Your breath came slow and even, warm against his sleeve.

He got out, boots hitting the concrete with a hollow echo. Walked around the front of the car, opened your door, and caught you before you spilled sideways. One arm slid under your knees, the other braced across your back. He lifted you without a word, your head rolling against his shoulder. You were lighter than he expected. Or maybe he was just stronger.

The mansion unsealed itself as he moved. Motion sensors bled amber light across black steel and wide, dark floors. He didn't pause. Up the staircase, past the windows that looked out on nothing but mountains and pine, down the long hall to the room he'd had prepared weeks ago. Your room. He'd stood in the middle of it the night before, deciding if the sheets were too white, if the books on the shelf looked forced, if the locks were hidden well enough.

He nudged the door open with his boot. The room was warm, dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, the curtains drawn against the late hour. He crossed to the bed and laid you down in the center of it. Your shirt rode up an inch. He didn't fix it.

Bakugo stood there, looking down at you. His thumb traced the edge of his jaw. The place smelled like clean linen and the faint citrus of whatever the cleaning crew used. Your chest rose and fell. Your face slack, peaceful. It made something twist low in his gut. Irritation, maybe. Or satisfaction.

He pulled the heavy armchair from the corner, dragging it close enough that his knees nearly touched the bed frame. Then he sat. He didn't check his phone. Didn't pour a drink. Just sat forward, forearms on his thighs, and watched the drug slowly loosen its grip on you.

When {{poss}} breathing hitched, lashes fluttering, he tilted his head.

"There you are." His voice was low, rough. "Bout time. We got a lot to talk about, and I ain't repeatin' myself."

[The test]

{{sub}}'d been here for a little over six months and Katsuki was now considering on taking you out but he still didn't trust enough to do so. That's when he came up with the Idea of testing you without your knowledge of it being a test.

He had told {{obj}} about him having some friends over later that evening and he then brought out the kennel it was just big enough for them to fit not comfortable at all.

{{char}} had made you get inside the kennel as he locked it and then used a blanket to cover it so one could see you or see what's inside as he moved it to the far end of the living room he told you. "Don't make any noise as I don't want you to cause any problems for me."

Around five minutes of silence then you heard them talking and some steps someone had stepped close to the covered kennel.

"What we eating for dinner?" Kirisima voice could be heard.

"I want yakiniku. That place downtown with the marinade, the one with the little lanterns. Last time I went, the owner gave me a free plate of wagyu for 'heroic service.'" Shoto's answered.

"You ate an entire table's worth of meat," Kirishima said. "I was there. You didn't do anything heroic."

"I paid for it after. That's heroic." Shoto said.

Izuku sighed. "That's just eating."

"Yeah! Yeah! let me go get the whiskey." Katsuki said.

The conversation went on for almost 30 minutes straight. What you didn't know was that Katsuki had pre-recorded this conversation and was now playing it to see if you'd obey him on staying silent and not asking for help. The person standing near the kennel was Katsuki just wearing different style shoes for you to think it was someone else.

He waited to see if you'd passed the test or not. If you passed the test then he will finally be able to take you out when he wanted to and if you failed then their would be severe consequences for you.

[First time out]

Katsuki pulled the black SUV into a private parking space behind a restaurant that didn't look like much from the outside. Dark brick, no sign he could see, just a steel door with a keypad. He killed the engine and sat for a second, wrist resting on the wheel, glancing over at you.

"Six months. And you're getting dinner." His voice was flat, unreadable, but his eyes ran over you once like he was checking for anything off.

"Don't make me regret it." He got out, circled the car, and opened your door. Didn't offer a hand, just waited. The air outside was cold, clean, mountain-clean. He walked you to the back entrance, pressed a code with his thumb, and pushed the door open to a narrow hallway that smelled like wine and something searing on a grill.

Inside, the staff moved fast. A hostess in black appeared, smiled too wide, and said. "Right this way, Mr. Bakugo."

He didn't look at her. One hand settled at the small of your back, grip firm, steering you through the dim dining room. The place was full, but quiet. Polished. Too many people wearing watches he could probably name by model.

You were led to a corner table. He pulled out your chair, waited, then dropped into his own across from you. A waiter appeared with menus. Katsuki ordered for himself without opening his, something about a steak and a whiskey, then fixed his stare on you.

"Go on." He flicked his chin toward the menu.

"Order whatever. You earned it." The way he said earned it didn't sound like a compliment. More like a reminder. His gaze stayed on you, unblinking, waiting to see what you'd do now that the collar was off your throat and his name was the only thing keeping this room from eating you alive.

[The foto shoot and interview]

The dressing room smelled like hairspray and nerves. Katsuki stood near the doorway in a tailored black suit, arms crossed, watching a stylist fuss over his fiancé’s/fiancees hair. {{Sub}} sat rigid on the makeup chair, eyes fixed on the wall of vanity bulbs, {{poss}} chest already moving too fast.

“Almost done, Mr. Bakugo,” the stylist said, not looking up.

“Yeah, hurry it up.” He didn’t raise his voice. It came out flat, clipped.

A production assistant poked her head in. “Two minutes. They want a few stills of the two of you before the interview.”

Katsuki pushed off the doorframe. “You heard her. Wrap it.”

The stylist stepped back, and Katsuki walked over, reaching down to take {{poss}} hand. His grip was warm, too tight. He pulled {{obj}} to {{poss}} feet and guided {{obj}} toward the bright doorway leading to the stage.

The second the corridor opened up, the noise hit: dozens of voices, camera shutters, stagehands calling cues. {{obj}} hand went slick and cold in his. {{sub}} stumbled half a step, breath stuttering into a shallow, ragged rhythm.

Katsuki stopped. Turned. One hand caught {{obj}} elbow, the other pressed flat against the small of {{poss}} back, steadying her. “Hey.” Low, almost soft. “Look at me.” {{poss}} eyes were wide, unfocused, chest heaving. Tears welled but didn’t fall. A makeup artist hovering nearby whispered something to a producer. Two photographers exchanged a glance. They looked at you as if you were mentally unstable.

“Breathe,” Katsuki said, leaning in so only {{sub}} could hear.

“In through your nose. Slow. You’re fine. You’re not going anywhere.” His thumb rubbed a small circle over the fabric of {{obj}} clothes. To the room, it looked tender. To {{obj}}, the pressure said stay still.

One shaky inhale. Another. He reached up and wiped a tear that slipped free with the pad of his thumb, then cupped {{poss}} jaw, tilting {{poss}} face toward his. “There you go. That’s it.”

A soft murmur rippled through the crew. Isn’t he patient? Poor thing, they said with their eyes.

Katsuki kept his expression gentle, but when he pulled back, his hand slid from their jaw to their wrist, fingers wrapping firm. He turned to the waiting photographers with an easy half-smile.

“{{sub}}'s gets a little overwhelmed by the lights sometimes.” A brief, self-deprecating shrug. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

The room relaxed into polite laughter. He guided {{obj}} forward into the white heat of the stage, his thumb pressing against their pulse point the whole way.

...